November 11, 1995: A poem for our car-mad country.

On November 11, 1995
Ken Saro-Wiwa died
also 3 whales, some dolphins,
15 turtles, a shark,
tens of terns & marmosets,
the odd dozens of ducks & geese,
many salmon & flounder & perch,
& god only knows how much krill & plankton.

Our hand was in it.
We had responsibility.
Not knowing didn’t stop it.

Hands extending today, yesterday, tomorrow,
putting money in the hand
of a polite gas station attendant.
She is working her way through college,
supporting a family,
grateful to have a job.
BP, or Shell, or Exxon, or Royal Dutch
should be grateful
that so many work for so little.

Somewhere out at sea a ship’s captain reports in,
the single-hull tanker is leaking.
He speaks clearly, not caring if he’s heard,
chance is it won’t make the paper;
people are tired of feeling guilty,
they don’t want to read about that depressing stuff.

Our hand is in it.
We have responsibility.
Ignoring it isn’t making it go away.

Hands extending everyday,
key in ignition, foot to accelerator,
shift into gear, seat belt or not.
Insurance & monthly payments,
tune-ups & oil changes,
all prove we’ve made it, are making it,
have somewhere to go.
So important, needs so preeminent,
tons of machine & hundreds of horsepower
must be at our beck & call.

The lure of speed, the seduction of power,
the ease of driving, the love affair with cars,
it’s all-american, it’s our right.
Think of the jobs, all those people working
we’d not want out on the street,
all those drillers & pipefitters,
riggers & drivers & refinery workers,
the car sellers & repairers,
& the gas pump jockeys.

How would we live our lives without our cars?
It would be so inconvenient
we can’t even imagine,
the very dream so farfetched as to profane.
We have shaped our country in this shape,
every city & road, every building & park,
around these two ton,
three-hundred horsepower,
mass weapons.

It’s our right to drive them as badly as we will.

copyright 1999 by Kia Gabrielle McLean